Saving Mr. Perfect Page 5

  “Where’d the lone gunman come from? I thought we had the rear perimeter secured.”

  I saw him then, the hotshot newbie, crouched where I’d left him. All that was missing was the smoke from the barrel of his paintball gun.

  “Sorry, Emerson,” he said and continued to level the firearm at me. “I can’t let you go in.”

  “What are you talking about?” I asked. The pain he’d inflicted was a tight throb, hot and itchy as it spread upward. Giving him the satisfaction of seeing how much it hurt wasn’t an option, so I resisted the urge to roll my shoulders. I was going to have a hell of a bruise tomorrow. “The entire purpose of this scenario is to breach the facility.”

  “And I will breach it—but I’ll do it alone.”

  “Seriously?”

  He stood and lifted his weapon in a gesture of surrender, arms up.

  “He’s dead,” he shouted in the direction of the warehouse. “I upheld my end of the bargain.”

  “Seriously?” I repeated, louder that time. I stood up next to him, narrowing my eyes to bring the guys from the warehouse into focus. If Simon was in on this, I was going to kill him. “That’s how you’re playing this, Leon? On your first day?”

  “No offense,” he said, and had the audacity to smile as he holstered his weapon. “But there was no way you and I were going to make it in there alive. At least this way one of us still wins.”

  “I’d hardly call murdering your partner winning.”

  His smile lost some of its self-satisfied wattage. “It’s not murder. They offered me an insurance plan before the game started, and I made the call to take it. Securing the cargo was more important than one agent’s life. Besides, we lost six guys on the way in here already.”

  “Seven,” I said. “We lost seven guys on the way in here.”

  His head tilted as he made the mental calculations, working his way through the paint-splattered bodies of our fallen brethren. “Oh, right. I guess you brought the total up to eight.” He shrugged. “It’s not an ideal outcome, but it’s a positive one for the Bureau, and that’s what counts.”

  I stared as if seeing him for the first time. Christopher Leon was an easy target for disdain and had been since the day he sauntered into the field office. Better dressed than every other agent in the place and on friendly terms with the higher ranks, Christopher wasn’t a typical new recruit. He’d felt it; many a cold shoulder turned his way in the locker room. I was trying my best not to let myself fall under the same prejudices, but moments like these weren’t making that task any easier.

  As the warehouse group trotted over to join us—one of whom was Simon, the bastard—I lifted the shirt from my back. The paint stuck where it soaked through the fabric to my skin. I tossed the shirt at Christopher, letting him have it as a trophy.

  “Congratulations on your success,” I said dryly. “Remind me to watch my back the next time we get partnered up.”

  Christopher’s mouth fell, and I felt a twinge of guilt for being so rough on the kid. It hadn’t been that long since I was the hotshot newbie. I could still remember the painful earnestness of wanting to prove myself, to show I was capable of the job I’d been trusted to do.

  “As promised, your delivery.” Mariah Ying, a hacker-turned-IT specialist who had an alarming love of playing the bad guy in these training exercises, tossed a black duffel bag at Christopher’s feet. “And congratulations. I don’t think anyone has single-handedly won one of these things his first time out before.”

  “Except Emerson,” Simon said with a rare grin. Few things in life got that man to smile, but seeing me beaten at my own game was one of them. “Remember, with the shoot-out in front of the baseball field?”

  “I remember, thanks.”

  “That must burn, huh? Or should I say, it must bruise? Upstaged by an upstart.”

  I flipped him my middle finger. “I don’t mind losing in a fair fight.”

  “The rules never said the mission had to be fair,” Christopher said. He opened the duffel bag, disappointed when it revealed nothing but crumpled newspapers. What had he expected to be in there? Gold stars? “It only had to be successful. I made a professional judgment call, and I stand by it.”

  “Your professional judgment was that Emerson couldn’t take down half a dozen guards led by No-Aim Mariah?” Paulie Jones, a robustly aggressive field agent I’d worked with a few times, laughed and slapped Christopher on the back. “You’ve clearly never seen him in action before.”

  “Or watched Mariah try to hit something that’s moving,” another agent added. “Unless it’s encrypted in computer code, she’s one hundred percent blind spot.”

  Simon also slapped Christopher on the back, hard, in the same spot where my own muscles still stung. His hand clamped long enough for me to make out the tight press of his fingers.

  “Also, some friendly advice?” Simon said. “If you ever shoot my partner in cold judgment again, I’ll kill you.”

  “Aw, shucks, Sterling,” I said. “You’re making me all gooey inside.”

  He flipped me off that time.

  “I mean it,” he added, directing his comments at Christopher. “I’m friends with the poison expert in forensics. Don’t try me.”

  Ganging up on the new kid—even one who’d cheat to get a win under his belt—wasn’t part of my job description, so I decided to take it easy on him. “According to the rules, winner buys the first round,” I said. “I hope you came prepared.”

  Mariah picked up my cue without batting an eyelash. “And we don’t come cheap. It’s top-shelf scotch and Cristal all the way.”

  The relief that moved across Christopher’s face was almost comical. “I don’t mind,” he said in a loud voice that seemed to be trying too hard. “I don’t mind at all.”

  Another pang of sympathy hit me. “Then it’s agreed. We’ll meet at the Whiskey Room in an hour.”

  The prospect of free booze after a long day hunting an empty duffel bag was all we needed to start moving again. We broke to shower and nurse our wounds and/or pride, depending on the situation.

  My pride was mostly intact, but my back was complaining, and that shower sounded great. Unfortunately, even that small pleasure was denied me. Christopher jogged up before I made it to my car, still clutching my paint- and sweat-soaked T-shirt.

  “Hey, no hard feelings?” he asked. His hand hovered as if he wanted to stop me from unlocking the door and driving away, but he didn’t make contact. “I didn’t mean to show you up back there.”

  “You didn’t.”

  “Yeah, I know that, but I wanted to explain…”

  “Look, Leon. I get it, okay?” I said as kindly as I could. “You wanted to put on a good show, prove to the powers that be that you have something to offer, and you did it. I might not approve of your methods, but I understand the motivation. Believe it or not, I was once young and eager to prove myself, too. And up until you shot me, I thought we were working pretty well together.”

  “Really?” His eyes lit up, and he reminded me of a kid getting a puppy for the first time. “I was afraid you might harbor a grudge.”

  “Nope. We’re fine.”

  “I was hoping you’d say that. In fact, I was hoping we’d have a chance to talk. I’ve been doing some research into the case you’re working, and I wanted to offer my assistance.”

  At that point in my career, I was working several cases—many of which would appeal to a man who was wet behind the ears and determined to prove himself—but I wasn’t a professional investigator for nothing. I knew without a doubt which case he meant. It was the same one that everyone referred to in those hushed, reverential tones.

  The Blue Fox. My white whale. The case that was going to make or break me.

  “Thanks, but I have it under control,” I said.

  “Of course you do,” he rushed on, oblivious
to the warning in my voice. “I read the thesis you wrote on him, and I’ve been following your work since you joined the Bureau. It’s amazing. If anyone can find that man, it’s you.”

  His flattery was touching but unnecessary. Flagging confidence had never been a problem of mine, and I knew what I was up against. The Blue Fox, better known as Warren Blue, had gone missing eight years earlier. For the majority of that time, the FBI had operated under the assumption that the infamous jewel thief had died in the line of duty. It was only recently—when I forced the case open with a crowbar—that they started to take his possible return seriously. So seriously, in fact, that I’d been given what amounted to a blank check to find him. The information that man carried in one fold of his brain was enough to close dozens of the organized art and jewelry rings currently littering my desk.

  I was going to find him. It was only a matter of time.

  “Thank you for the vote of confidence, but I already have all the support I need from Sterling.” I turned to leave, hoping to cut the conversation short, but I underestimated the obstinacy of a young overachiever.

  “Sterling is a great agent, of course, and I’m sure he’s trying his best, but did you guys know that the Blue Fox has a daughter?” He waited for me to react, disappointed when all he got was a tilt of my head. “She’s alive and in New York. I could tell you exactly where to find her.”

  That got a reaction, but probably not the one he was hoping for.

  Of course I knew about Penelope Blue, the twenty-three-year-old daughter of my prey. Warren Blue was one of those rare criminals who’d kept his private life firmly private, but I hadn’t spent most of my professional career digging into his secrets for nothing. There was a record of Penelope’s birth and a few juvenile arrests, followed by years of nothing. It was as though she’d disappeared off the face of the earth with him.

  But then a valuable necklace went missing from a hotel safe, and someone lifted half a dozen watches from a popular Wall Street hangout, and I found her. Or, more specifically, I found the pair of thieves responsible for those—and about ten similar—crimes. Luck wasn’t something I believed in, not in this line of work, but I figured that was as close as I’d ever get to it.

  I’d been following her for about three months, and I’d yet to be disappointed. Tracking Penelope’s movements was like tracking a cat. The petite strawberry blond slunk in and out of the most unlikely places, taking whatever she wanted, whenever she wanted it. She was indifferent to everything—especially the laws governing human society—but somehow kept her proud head erect as she moved silently through the night.

  She was brazen.

  She was determined.

  She was magnificent.

  She was also most valuable to me exactly where she was. I’d always considered myself more of a dog person than a cat person, but even I knew you couldn’t tame a creature like that by putting her behind bars. She was much more useful running wild and free, the exact bait I needed to pull the Blue Fox out of his hole.

  “I have reason to believe you could bring her in for questioning, possibly coerce her into helping you out,” Christopher said. “Apparently, she didn’t fall too far from the tree, if you know what I mean.”

  I didn’t have to fake a cold, hard look at that. “I know what you mean, thanks.”

  “It’d be really easy to get a warrant out for her arrest,” Christopher added. “I could call in a few favors for you, get the paperwork rolling within the hour. We could work the case together.”

  I would have liked to blame my reaction on the lingering tension of the training exercise, but that would have been unfair to both Christopher and me. Christopher, because he didn’t know any better, and me, because I did. The reality is that federal agents are known to get a little territorial over their cases, and I was no exception—especially in this instance. Penelope Blue was mine. She’d become mine the day I caught her sliding down a rain gutter with a bejeweled machete between her teeth, unconcerned for her personal safety and oblivious to the fact that she was being watched.

  “Knowing you, you’d shoot her before we had a chance to pursue any line of questioning,” I said. My tight smile stretched my cheeks. “Forgive me if I’d rather not take that approach.”

  “But I could help,” he insisted. “There’s an angle you might not have considered—”

  I tried, I honestly did. I breathed in and out, counted to ten, pictured the entire world in its underwear. None of it worked. The idea of this hothead rushing in and putting Penelope at risk for his own gain was too much.

  “Thanks, but I’ve got it. I suggest you spend a little more time developing your own cases before you try taking over everyone else’s. And Leon?” I didn’t wait for a response. “Stop trying so hard. You need to lighten the fuck up, or this job is going to eat you alive.”

  I didn’t catch everything he said as I opened the car door and slid behind the wheel, but judging from the way his face turned red, he wasn’t happy with the way I handled the dismissal. I wasn’t too happy with it myself, but what was done was done. And I couldn’t regret the outcome. At least this way, he got the message. Under no circumstances was I going to hand Penelope Blue over to someone who turned on his own partner to win a training exercise.

  A man who shot you in the back once was a man who’d shoot you in the back twenty times over.

  5

  THE SUSPECT

  (Present Day)

  “Thank you for an interesting and highly invasive afternoon, Penelope.” My dad is waiting for me at the door to his hotel room when I arrive, anticipating my movements, as usual. “Your little stunt at the Bureau put me back on at least twelve watch lists.”

  “Only twelve? You must be slipping.”

  I lean in to kiss him on the cheek before making my way inside, doing my best not to look as out of place as I feel. My father’s current residence is none other than the Lombardy, an address he’s called home since we reconnected six months ago. Living in one of the nicest hotels in the city seems extravagant, but he’s always preferred it this way. Growing up, we lived in a series of rooms and suites that were easy to leave at a moment’s notice. Some were like this one, ostentatious and grand. Others were less…shall we say, excessive? It all depended on which way the winds blew at the time.

  Right now, the winds are blowing strongly in his favor. His suite isn’t the penthouse, but it’s the next best thing. The penultimatehouse, he likes to call it. Paying for the most expensive room in a building like this would raise red flags about his income. Second-best gets him the same amenities with half the scrutiny.

  He’s smart like that. You don’t get to be a criminal kingpin and FBI informant any other way.

  “You could have at least warned me,” he says, a deep frown etched into his features. His face is a series of such etches and grooves. My memories of the handsome and powerful man he once was are now carved in stone. “I might have been able to provide assistance.”

  “There was no need,” I say airily. I click over the marble floor tiles to one of several white couches in the main room.

  Clicking is, unfortunately, the only way I know how to walk in these stupid shoes. I’ve had them on since I left the FBI building, and I’m going to wear them home later, too—I refuse to change as a matter of principle. Grant will have to look at them until he’s sorry for what he did.

  “You were our decoy,” I explain when my dad stays silent. “We needed you to raise suspicions so I could get inside.”

  “And did you?”

  “Of course.”

  “Take anything worthwhile?”

  “Not anything of tangible value, if that’s what you’re asking,” I say. I know he’ll be disappointed by that—he considers an elaborate heist wasteful unless millions of dollars end up in his pockets—but he’ll be disappointed no matter what I tell him. Although he supports my ma
rriage, he doesn’t understand it. Few people do. “But I got information, which is more important. What do you know about the Peep-Toe Prowler?”

  A smoother, more elegant clicking sound fills the room, this time from the bedroom. I don’t have to look up to know who it is. I can smell Tara Lewis coming from a mile away.

  Well, not literally. A thief and con artist who also considers an elaborate heist wasteful unless millions of dollars end up in her pockets, Tara knows better than to wear perfume and risk detection. The smell is less a physical aroma and more like proof of the decay of her soul.

  “Hello, Tara,” I say blandly. Even though I haven’t seen my stepmother in six months—not since she helped the FBI find my dad—I’m not surprised to see her. She has a way of disappearing and reappearing whenever it suits her. “I didn’t know you were back in town.”

  She places one of her carefully sculpted fingernails against an even more carefully sculpted nose and winks. “And I’d appreciate it if you kept it that way. No running home to the man of the house full of news, okay?”

  “Sorry, but I don’t keep secrets from my husband anymore.”

  “That’s nice. Also a lie. Any woman who wants to stay married for longer than a month has secrets.” She turns to my father with a saccharine smile. “Isn’t that right, Warren? I don’t tell you anything, and look at how long we’ve been together.”

  My dad murmurs a noncommittal reply. Technically, the two of them will be celebrating their twelfth anniversary later this year. Even though Tara is only thirty-one—and a well-preserved, vibrantly blond thirty-one at that—she and my dad have quite the history together.

  Of course, my dad was missing for most of that history, so it doesn’t do to put much stock in her marital advice. Insight on how to abandon your young stepdaughter? She’s your gal. Tips and tricks for incredible brassiere support? Absolutely. Her cleavage is nothing short of miraculous.